


The Poet

by NebulousMistress



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress
Summary: She needs a poet. He always wanted to write music.





	1. The Raven

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a collection of shorts and sections that are best enjoyed in a coherent storyline. They were written 2012 to 2015.

The Skulk and Lurk was quiet tonight, quieter than normal. Friday nights were usually reserved for gothic poetry but very few aspiring poets were volunteering their works tonight. Paradoxally, the bookstore was full of people. Quiet goths sipped coffee and scratched in sketchbooks, flashy punks attempted to look badass, neo-victorian fetishists lurked in the back, the one balding guy in dark blue robes mumbled about the Marsh Legacy...

The bookstore was full. But the stage was empty. Everyone knew why but no one voiced it.

It was the last Friday of the month. And yet the Raven wasn't here yet.

Nobody knew who the Raven really was or where he came from. He always wore a satin waistcoat over a lace shirt, a long tailcoat over it all. He favored dark colors with light pastel accents. "Shadows and dust" he always described it as. Usually a cravat or a scarf or something much more interesting than a simple tie around his neck. A top hat with a velvet band always matching his waistcoat. And a mask. The mask was unique.

No one knew his name. He answered to the Raven, always had since the very first time he came in with that black feathered mask, a raven's mask with a long black beak, shining sequins around the eyes, and luxurious black feathers all over his face. Single black feathers were even expected in the band of his top hat.

And he wasn't here yet. He was late. The Raven was never late.

***

"Kinda quiet tonight," Danny said.

"Shush," Sam scolded.

Danny rolled his eyes and looked around the Skulk and Lurk. Sam had conned him into a poetry reading. Or blackmailed, depending on how he thought of it. Maybe bribed; this bookstore did have good coffee. Really good coffee. And Sam promised to buy so here he was, sipping some huge whipped cream and swirled coffee-hot chocolate monstrosity through a straw. It even had sprinkles, black and purple ones shaped like cute little bats.

The place was packed. He'd never seen it so full of people before. Yet the stage was empty. It didn't feel like any other poetry reading he'd ever been to, no, this felt like a performance. A stage play. A concert.

A murmur circled the bookstore, a murmur that began before Danny even got his coffee. The Raven was late. The Raven was never late. What gives? He might not even show up. Where is he? Where's the Raven?

And then the murmurs stopped. In the doorway stood a man in a top hat.

Danny was honestly surprised that his ghost sense wasn't going off. The man wore a mask over most of his face. Only his mouth, his chin, and a finely shaped goatee were uncovered by the big black mask with a long sharp beak. Tiny iridescent feathers graced the eyes of the mask. Those eyes seemed to stare directly into Danny's own. He swallowed nervously before taking another gulp of his drink.

"There he is," Sam whispered. "The Raven. Oh, he's so good. He's been coming here in a mask for at least a year. Nobody knows who he is."

"Shhh," hissed a nearby voice.

The Raven stalked up to the stage like he knew it was for him. The impossibly dark green satin waistcoat shone in the lights. His black tailcoat drifted behind him like the feathers of a bird's tail. The light green lace cravat at his throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily. He seemed almost nervous today, a strange turn of events. Even more strange, those blank eye holes seemed focused on one point rather than scanning the room in quiet contemplation. Something was different about tonight, something that made Danny's skin crawl as he realized the Raven was looking right at him.

Finally the Raven took a deep breath and bowed his masked head. The beak pointed down at the stage before rising again as he began to speak.

"The light sees," said the Raven.  
"The light sees nothing.

Hide in the light  
hide among the awake  
hide here  
they don't see  
they never see  
not in the light

But I see you."

Goosebumps raised all over Danny's arms. It felt like the Raven was talking directly to him.

"The darkness sees," said the Raven.  
"The darkness sees all.

Fly in the night  
fly through the sky  
fly here  
they see all  
they see nothing  
they see the night

But I see you."

Danny's mouth hung open. Nobody else in the room seemed anywhere near as affected as he was. But then the Raven didn't seem to notice anyone else at all as he spoke directly to Danny.

"The shadows between," said the Raven.  
"The shadows see.

Play in the shadows  
play among the dead  
play here, child  
they know you  
they are you  
and you are them

But I still see you."

The Raven bowed his head. Even so Danny could still feel his eyes, still staring, still accusing. Still... knowing...

The goths around them all bowed their heads in respect for the poet onstage.

Danny fled the bookstore. This 'Raven'... was talking directly to him. He was never going to another poetry reading with Sam ever again. That was just too creepy.


	2. The Proposal

The sounds of late night news filtered from the flickering television set, bathing the man on the couch in a washed out glow. A half-finished cup of chamomile tea sat on the coffee table along with a dozen books and stacks upon stacks of loose papers. Light reflected from his almost shiny bald head and dull, tired eyes. A black tie was tossed haphazardly over a chair and the top buttons of his light blue shirt were undone.

Tired eyes drooped before falling shut. They shot open before drooping again.

"Ahem."

Those bleary eyes looked up toward the sound. The sight jolted him awake and off the couch, landing on the floor in a heap. A ghost, a ghost in his living room! Flaming blue hair, knee high boots, tight black clothing, one long black glove, porcelain white skin, bright green eyes that glowed...

Ember stood in the middle of the living room. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. She didn't have long, not if that do-gooder scum Phantom was on one of his patrols.

"Um... Oh my."

Ember smirked at the man's inability to find his words. She liked being able to render poets speechless. It made her feel attractive, powerful. "You're a poet, are you not?"

"An English teacher," he corrected. "You're that ghost singer. Ember McClain."

Ember smirked. He knew of her work then. That would make things easier. "I am," she said. "It doesn't matter that you're not paid for your work, you're still a poet. I'm looking for someone like you."

"A poet?"

"A **living** poet. You see, dead poets are good but all they write about is their deaths or their obsessions. I have that problem, too. I need a songwriter." She pulled out something she knew the man would recognize: one of his own notebooks full of scribbled words, half-formed thoughts, bourbon stains, and tragic epics. "I think you might suit my needs quite nicely."

She watched his expression as it went thought shock, recognition, indignation, betrayal, then suspicion. Yes, this man was a poet. It showed on his face when he realized his words were read without his permission.

"I read some of your work," she said. "I'm a ghost and you still managed to make me feel. The themes of loss are ones I can certainly appreciate. But this mysterious wayward child you write about... It's amazing. You feel so much more for- for **strangers** than any normal human ever does. It's what makes you a poet, I think."

"You want some of what I've written."

"Of course not, Poet. I don't want what you've written for another, that just wouldn't be right. I want you to write something for me and then I want you to let me turn it into a song. Perhaps, if we like what happens, we might do it again." Ember gave him a winning smile and cocked her hip in an enticing manner. Her hair flamed, displaying her power.

"Call me Lionel. Lionel Lancer."

*****

The living and the dead did not work well together. At least not in Amity Park.

"For the last time I have to teach during the day!" Lancer ranted. "Why in the _Iliad_ can't you come by at night?! I write better at night anyway!"

"Yeah, 'cause you can drink at night," Ember muttered.

Lancer glared at her but didn't even try to deny it.

"I can't be here at night," Ember said, giving a real response to Lancer's rant. "You know as well as I do that I would adore, I would **kill** to be able to work at night but I can't! Not with Phantom running around all night specifically looking for ghosts like me! I don't even think it matters to him that I'm here on totally legit business! We even have a contract! Ghosts hold contracts sacred and I doubt even **that** means anything to him!"

"Fine, fine, I get it," Lancer said, cutting off her own rant. "You don't want to get hurt and I understand that. Really, I do. But I can't just not go to work, not without a real reason. And writing for another job is not considered a valid reason, believe me I've tried that one!"

Ember pouted. It was just so unfair! Why is it Phantom and even Plasmius got to run around all day in their human forms...

The pout faded as she looked the poet up and down. He was middle-aged, hairy, chunky. And bald. But he had an okay voice. And maybe if she could just lurk...

It might work. She gave an evil, plotting grin that disturbed Lancer to no end before jumping at him.

_A Wind in the Door_ _! What just happened?! How dare you possess me!_

"Oh shut up, Poet," Ember said. But it was Lancer's voice that she used. "I'm not possessing you. I'm overshadowing you. There's a difference. Once we get to your precious day job I'll barely be doing that. You'll be able to put on a video or whatever it is teachers do when hungover and then you and I can work on getting something written and no one will be the wiser!"

_This isn't going to work, Ember._

"Of course it will. Now then, you need to get dressed properly. I am not going anywhere dressed like this." She gestured to his body in pale blue collared shirt, narrow black tie, and pants that didn't even fit right.

_Fine._

Ember headed back into his bedroom to look through the closet. She smirked as she pulled out a pink sundress.

_Don't say a word._

"Wasn't planning on it." She dug through the closet again, pushing aside probably a dozen short sleeved collared shirts, all in various shades of blue. Even his tie rack was boring, mostly dark colors. She threw the doors closed and scowled at the offending closet. "For a poet you have terrible taste. Don't you have anything fun? For, like, when meeting musicians? Don't tell me you show up looking like an English teacher. Or worse, a golfer."

_Oh ha ha. Spare bedroom._

They headed into the spare bedroom, more of an office than anything. She pulled open the closet doors. A pleased smile spread across her face.

Now this was more like it.

*****

Danny was tired but at least he was in class on time today. His ghost sense had been giving him false alarms all week, always in the middle of the night. It was almost as though someone was hanging around but they were allowed to? He knew it sounded preposterous but that's what it felt like. His friends didn't understand it. His sister didn't have the slightest clue. He couldn't go to his parents. Going to Vlad was a suicidal joke. All he could really do was hope it ended soon so he could get some proper sleep.

Oh hell. And there it was again. His friends saw the blue mist seep from his mouth as easily as he felt it. They looked concerned. They looked even more concerned when he just groaned and put his head down on his desk.

"You're not going to..." Sam asked, trailing off.

Danny shifted so his chin was resting on the desk. "That's the false alarm I was telling you guys about," he said. "I really want to find out what it is so it'll just stop!"

"So just kick their butts back into the Ghost Zone," Tucker said.

Danny shook his head. "I don't think I'm allowed to. I swear, it's like the weirdest thing."

The room went quiet. "No, I think that's the weirdest thing," Tucker said.

Mr. Lancer stood in the doorway to his classroom but something had to be horribly wrong. Maybe he got ambushed by the Skulk and Lurk or something. The black pants were pretty normal. The black boots with silver buckles were a little weird but not too bad. But they were normal next to the long-sleeved light blue shirt with lace edging. Or the red satin waistcoat that shined in all sorts of weird ways. Especially the lacy black thing at Lancer's neck, tied in a manner that reminded Danny of Vlad or maybe of an Addams Family movie.

He looked thinner, probably something underneath his shirt that held his stomach in. Or maybe it was just because these clothes fit. He looked significantly paler and he was wearing some sort of eye make-up or something to give his eyes deep black shadows. The white gloves didn't help, nor did the black top hat with red velvet band.

Danny's ghost sense was going crazy.

Lancer looked out over at his classroom with an expression of disdain in his glowing green eyes. Those eyes alighted on Danny and his demeanor was shot as Lancer visibly fought not to laugh. "You have Baby Pop in your class?!" he crowed, grinning with pure delight.

Danny went tense. Only one person ever called him that.

Lancer's demeanor shifted. "Ember, stay out of this," he said with a calm, authoritative voice.

The amusement returned immediately. "You never told me you've got him in here! Oh this is rich!" He pointed and laughed, singling out Danny.

The laughter stopped mid-gasp, an eerie abrupt shift that had the whole class disturbed. "Ember! If you can't stop laughing at my students then this isn't going to work!"

"Um... Mr. Lancer, are you okay?" Sam asked.

Lancer looked at her. First he sneered in recognition then went back to his normal teacher expression. "Oh I'm fine, just... of two minds... at the moment."

Danny's hands balled into fists.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Fenton?" Lancer asked.

"Actually, sir, yes there is," Danny growled.

Lancer lost his normal air of seriousness as he sauntered over to Danny's chair. He gave Danny an easy smile. "Well then you'll just have to live with it," he said. "You can't do anything about it. No one can." He looked Danny right in the eye. "Not even Phantom."

"Don't be so sure about that," Danny growled.

"Oh? I'm sure everyone else in the Ghost Zone would love to hear about it. Phantom deciding to take it upon himself to ignore a contract freely signed? How he ruins a perfectly good business proposition? This is a body freely given. The Poet and I have an agreement. He writes songs for me. It's Phantom's fault for forcing me to have to resort to measures like this. If Phantom didn't lord over Plasmius's territory like an annoying spoiled brat then the Poet and I could get our work done at night like normal musicians and you wouldn't have to deal with this little problem of yours."

Lancer stopped mocking Danny directly. He turned and headed back up to the front of the room. "Okay, kids, today you're going to watch a movie." He leaned on the lectern with an easy sprawl that was more befitting of a teenage girl.

Danny dropped his head onto the desk. He couldn't **believe** this was happening. Lancer couldn't honestly have agreed to this, could he? He sat back up and raised his hand.

"Mr. Fenton, if you insist on badgering me about this you'll be in detention for a week."

Danny put his hand down. The tone, the words, the glare, that was all Lancer. There wasn't a hint of Ember in that threat. He sat back in his seat and pouted.

Even if this was willing he didn't have to like it.


	3. The Interference

Danny Phantom flew over the ill-kept suburban neighborhood, his ghost sense bothering him. This place had been pinging his senses for a week now, a nagging chill in the back of his mind. Something was wrong here, some ghost working this area, trying to take territory?

He just couldn’t shake the feeling that this ghost was… allowed… to be here. But that was silly, he’d never felt that before about any ghost. Ghosts weren’t ‘allowed’ to be anywhere, not unless it was a place they’d claimed but there was no claim here. Right?

His ghost sense went off, pointing him to a strangely dressed man meandering along the sidewalk. Strangely dressed indeed, he wore a three piece suit with velvet vest and some sort of lacy neck thing. A top hat with a velvet band sat askew on a bright blue wig. The man’s face was hidden by a mask, a long nosed masquerade mask. Or maybe a long beaked mask? Danny couldn’t tell what he was wearing or why, he could only tell that the man was possessed.

It was an easy observation. Danny watched as a mugger with a gun approached the man and was shot by an ectoblast from the man’s ink-stained hand. The mugger ran off, seeking easier prey as the man continued stumbling through the run down houses until he reached one. This house had a front garden that looked to be made of weeds, vines, chaos, and cats. The cats hissed at him as he passed, all arching their backs at the ghost possessing him. A jingle of keys and the man went inside.

This wouldn’t do, Danny thought. Ghosts were not allowed to set up territory in his town. When they tried they left nothing but chaos and terror and bad puns in their wake. He flew down to the house, wondering why the car in the drive seemed familiar.

He knocked on the door. Possessed or no, this was still the man’s house.

The door opened as the man took off the masquerade mask.

“Mr. Lancer?!” Danny shrieked.

It **was** him. His English teacher was dressed like that one poet from the Skulk and Lurk, stank of bourbon, and had bright green glowing eyes. Definitely possessed. Danny raised a glowing hand. “Ember, you have three seconds to vacate that body,” he warned.

Mr. Lancer merely leaned against the doorframe, his sprawl betraying the posture of the force within him. “Go home, you have school in the morning,” he said, voice and expression normal. That normality lasted only a moment before an expression of hilarious glee took its place.

“Baby Pop!” Lancer crowed. “What the– ohhh… I see. You saw us out on the town and wanted to swoop in to protect the innocent little Poet. Oh how cute.”

Danny’s hand and face fell in horrible realization.

Lancer twitched and his expression changed. “Phantom,” he said. “Ember warned me you might be a problem. Here’s the thing.”

He changed again, his voice taking on new mocking tones. “The Poet and I have a contract and you can’t touch me.” The image of Mr. Lancer leaned over and wiggling his rear end to the tone of his own words was one that would haunt Danny for the rest of his life.

Danny just stared, abject horror written all over his face.

Lancer’s demeanor changed back. “Ember is correct, Phantom,” he said. “A contract freely signed is one that you cannot interfere with. And this was freely signed. I’ve always enjoyed writing music and she needed a new lyricist. She approached me several weeks ago with the arrangement and it has been beneficial to the both of us.”

A spider could have taken up residence in Danny’s dropped jaw. “Why?!” he demanded.

Lancer’s posture changed again, almost melting against the wall in an easy sprawl. “I like his writing,” he said. “We’ve got several songs in the works already. MTV will **RUE** the day they called me a one-hit-wonder. Rue, I tell you.”

“In the meantime,” Lancer said, standing up straight again. “I do have work in the morning and possession does tend to give me a hangover if it lasts too long so if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

“Oh and all that bourbon doesn’t affect your hangovers at all,” Lancer said, responding to his own words.

“I never hear you complaining.”

“Yeah, 'cause you got good taste in booze.”

Danny stared straight ahead as the door closed and Mr. Lancer continued his argument with himself, or more accurately continued arguing with Ember over who drank the last of the whiskey last time. That… That was just wrong!

Danny sat down on the porch, his world view shattering as the faint chords of a guitar drifted from inside the house.


	4. The Deal

Ember tossed the pages onto the coffee table. “These new songs are weird, Poet,” she said. She grabbed his glass of bourbon as it was half-hoisted to his lips and drained it for him.

Her poet glared at his empty hand and then at her. “You could get your own drink,” Lancer suggested.

“And you can get me another,” she countered. “But really, Poet, this is weird stuff. I mean, acoustics? A cello? Where are we gonna get a cello player around these parts? Who ever heard of a cello in a rock band? I play rock and roll, Poet! Not this orchestral boring crap half the Ghost Zone favors. Ugh!”

“Clearly you have never heard a cello cut loose,” Lancer said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Look. You contracted me as your poet because, in your own words, poets in the ghost zone only write about their deaths or their obsessions. You said you wanted variety. You said you wanted a re-imagining of what you could do with your music. You said you wanted to redesign your genre.”

Her hair flamed higher in annoyance as he merely sat there and glared at her. “Fine, fine, I’ll try the frickin’ cello,” she snapped. Her flames died down a little, falling back to her normal fiery level. “But this is a huge favor I’m doin’ you, Poet. I don’t like doin’ favors unless I get something in return.”

“You get the music,” Lancer said. He gulped at the look on her face. Clearly the music was not going to be enough.

*****

The music wasn’t enough. Not this time.

Explaining himself to the other teachers was as easy as claiming he’d lost a bet. His students were not likely to be as understanding. Still, there was nothing else he could do to put this off. And it was only for one day…

Lancer took a deep breath and walked into his classroom, pink sundress swishing around his stockinged knees. The room went dead quiet right before the whispering and the sounds of cell phone cameras began. He could feel the silent glee behind his own mind as Ember tried not to laugh aloud.

Today was going to be a long day.


	5. The Music

The living room was in shambles. A controlled chaos of pages, empty glasses, bottles, and an acoustic guitar marred what once had been a perfectly respectable living room. The comfy couch was currently occupied by a pale woman in tight leather pants and a midriff tank top, the floor by a bald man who seemed to have given up on the half-empty glass in front of him as he took a pull of bourbon directly from the bottle.

"Hey, Poet, gimme some of that."

Lancer blinked up at the fuzzy, burning form of his collaborator. Ember held out one black-gloved hand, gesturing for the bottle in his hands. Lancer pouted and handed her the bottle, realizing as he did that he wasn't going to get it back. Experience had taught him that as they existed without livers ghosts had no upper limit to their tolerances. Or at least she didn't.

His pout continued as she upended the bottle, guzzling the contents like it was water.

Ember sighed in contentment as she sucked down the last of the bourbon. She fixed glowing green eyes on Lancer and his pout. "What?" she demanded.

Lancer gave her his best 'that was mine' look.

"Oh, suck it up, Poet," she snapped. "You're already drunk. Much more and you won't be able to write."

Lancer stuck his tongue out at her before noticing he was slowly swaying as he sat on the floor. He stopped himself, sat up with as much dignity as he could muster, then with a thoroughly pompous air...

"I don't have any ideas tonight," he said.

He didn't even make the effort to duck the couch pillow thrown at his face. Rather he giggled maniacally as it impacted, grabbing it and curling up on the floor with it.

"Drunken Poet," Ember grumbled. "Then why in heck am I even here?! Phantom was a real dipstick tonight, you know! Followed me here to make sure I didn't detour to anywhere he wouldn't like."

"And I feel so sorry for you," Lancer drawled.

Ember growled, suppressing the urge to ectoblast her drunken poet right in his big fat gut.

"It's..." Lancer gestured wildly, one arm knocking the empty bottle off the table as he swung it around. "It's... I dunno how any of this sounds! You wun lemme read none of your songs in front of people an' you wun bring yer guitar here so I dunno how it sounds when you play! I haven't heard what you're doin' to any of my words! Ember, I need ta know what I sound like."

"Listen, Poet," Ember snapped. "I don't do concerts for one! It's just not my style! I either have an audience or I play alone! Got that?"

"Then I dunno iffn we can keep this arrangement," Lancer said.

Ember snarled and glared at the acoustic guitar before her. It was more than just a stylistic issue, she literally could not play in front of only one person. She'd tried. No, she needed an audience, a group, she needed multiple people to feed off of as they basked in her music. Or she needed to be alone, as alone as she was inside a recording studio locked in a room with no connection to the outside world, only the electronically filtered voice of the guy in the booth to tell her that anything existed outside her music.

"I can't play in front of only one person," she insisted. But something he'd said... "But... Hey, Poet, you mentioned 'reading in front of people'. What do you mean?"

*****

The atmosphere of the Skulk and Lurk was confused, electrified. It was Tuesday. The owner usually came out with his guitar and played with the local garage band on Tuesdays. But their equipment wasn't there nor were they. Instead there were whispers, something about a surprise.

The patrons were indeed surprised when the Raven walked in with an acoustic guitar.

And then someone else.

"Skulk and Lurk, are you ready to rock!"

By the end of the night there wasn't an empty seat left in the house.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://nebulousmistress.tumblr.com/) where you can find a hundred little fanfics I never posted here. Check it out, drop a line, maybe dare me to write something for you.


End file.
